The red brick mansion loomed before them. Though it had a moat and a wooden bridge, they were merely for appearances. This far from the border, such a country house didn’t need fortification. Large glazed windows surrounded the top floors, conical turrets adorned the corners, and octagonal chimneys sprouted from the expensive clay-shingled roof. Lord Attmore lacked for naught. After living in such comfort, Isobel MacDonell wouldn’t know what to do with herself at Lochlaire. But then she was destined for an earl—a Scots one, but an earl nonetheless—so perhaps it was fitting.
According to her father, Alan MacDonell, chieftain of the MacDonells of Glen Laire, she’d lived with Lord Attmore and his family for twelve years. She was four-and-twenty now. More than a decade she’d lived in such sumptuous luxury. She was probably spoiled rotten and would whine and complain the whole journey north.
Philip sighed. It was for Alan that he did this—anyone else he would have refused. But he owed Alan a great deal. And besides, she wasn’t Philip’s problem, thank God. He was merely here to fetch her, then she was her father’s problem, and Philip could get back to important matters.
They cantered over the bridge and into the statue and shrub-lined courtyard. Liveried servants rushed out to greet them and take their horses. They were led into an expansive entryway. The polished wood floor and paneled walls gleamed. A servant led them to a carpeted drawing room and abandoned them.
When the door closed Fergus whistled under his breath. “God’s wounds!” He elbowed Stephen. “Yer uncle is an earl—do Scots nobles live like this?”
Stephen scratched at his head. His long blond hair was secured at the nape of his neck. “Uh…no. Not that he lives in a cave or anything.” He wandered over to a curtained alcove and fingered a heavy tassel. “This is silk…and gold thread, too.”
Philip frowned at the lad. He still stood where the servant had left them, his hands clasped hard behind his back. “Don’t touch that—your hands are dirty.”
Stephen grinned and rubbed the tassel against his blond-stubbled jaw. “Aye—maybe some bastard Scots will rub off on them.”
The door opened. Stephen dropped the tassel and straightened, his expression grave.
A portly man entered, his face florid. He toyed with the small mustache that feathered his lips, eyeing them suspiciously. He was well dressed, but in comfortable attire and riding boots.
“Lord Attmore?” Philip queried.
“Yes? And who might you be?”
Philip unhooked his jack and withdrew a letter. “Sir Philip Kilpatrick of Colquhoun.”
Attmore’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard of you. Whom do you seek here?”
“I’m here on MacDonell of Glen Laire business.”
Attmore sighed with relief and took the letter Philip proffered. He read it, his brow furrowed, but when he looked up his face was shining. “You’re here for Isobel? She’s finally going home?” His voice nearly trembled with joy.
Philip hesitated, not expecting such a reaction. MacDonell paid Lord Attmore well to ward her. He’d anticipated resistance, not elation. “Aye. She’s to wed the earl of Kincreag in a fortnight, so haste must be made. We leave at dawn.”
The sound of running feet caused them all to turn. A woman appeared in the open doorway. Her cheeks blazed from exercise, and reddish blond curls surrounded her face like a halo. A lace cap hung askew from her hair. Philip’s eyes narrowed. It was the same type of cap he’d seen lying on the hearth in the old woman’s cottage in the woods. He’d thought then that such finery was out of place in her rough cottage. His gaze dropped to the lass’s feet. Cork-soled shoes, splattered with mud. The shoes he’d seen beneath the curtain, though cleaner, had been cork-soled. Not the slippers of a gentlewoman. Mud splattered the edge of her skirts, as if she’d been running through puddles.
By the time his gaze had traveled back up her willowy figure to her face, she’d composed herself and was trying to smooth down the unruly curls that had come loose from her plait. Red-gold hair. Though he couldn’t see her back, he’d wager his life it hung in a thick ropelike braid. It seemed he’d found the wood sprite. Though why such a thing would alarm Horse was a mystery.
She carried kidskin gloves in one hand and after a moment she slipped them on surreptitiously. “Lord Attmore,” she said, her voice low. “I didn’t realize we had visitors.”
She was a liar and a sneak. She had known he was there—had raced them through the woods.
She pinned Philip with a warm green gaze. “I’m Isobel MacDonell.”
Philip sucked in a surprised breath and coughed. Stephen was there, pounding on his back until he shrugged the lad off irritably.“Youare Alan’s daughter?” He’d not considered she might be his charge. Bloody hell. This was not at all what he’d expected. But now that he looked at her he could see she was a MacDonell. In fact, she looked remarkably like her mother, Lillian, who’d died twelve years before.
Her expression chilled at his incredulity. “Why, yes. I am.”
Stephen crossed the room, seeking to smooth over their awkward beginning. “Mistress MacDonell, I am Stephen Ross, this is Fergus MacLean.” He indicated Fergus, who nodded and mumbled a gruff greeting. “And this is Sir Philip Kilpatrick of Colquhoun.”
Her cool green gaze swept Philip from head to toe. “A Keeper of the Dogs? Hmm…to what do we owe this honor?”
Philip frowned, unsettled that she knew Colquhoun history. After twelve years he hadn’t expected Alan’s daughter to even remember the Scots’ tongue, let alone any history.
Lord Attmore answered before Philip could. “Your father has sent for you, my dear!” He went to her and grasped her hands tightly in his. “You’re going home!”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Home?”
Attmore thrust the letter into her hands. “Yes, isn’t it wonderful? You must leave first thing on the morrow. There’s packing to be done…arrangements to be made…” His eyes moved rapidly as he thought of all that must be done. “We’ll have your things sent after you. Worry not. Just gather what you need for your journey.” He patted Isobel’s shoulder. “I’ll see to the rest.” He nodded happily at Philip and hurried from the room, leaving Isobel to read the missive in stunned disbelief.
